You Are My Sunshine

The Cassville Ferry crosses from Iowa to Wisconsin and it is a magical mode of transport. As we were quite keen to leave our motel we are up and at ‘em by 6:30am (this starts to become a habit) and waiting for the Cassville ferry.

The ferry starts running at 9am so we stare at the river from the flattened square of sand that is the embarkation point and eat donuts. We stare at the river for over two hours but it is two joyous hours: Eagles, fishermen, strange noises we are unfamiliar with and the odd silence of a huge river slowly pass by. Ashly stands, hands on hips, stock-still for at least 15 minutes, then just turns to me and smiles. We pity the poor folk who have never waited for the Cassville Ferry in warm and constant drizzle.

We cross back into Wisconsin and eagerly head for The Dickeyville Grotto, Dickeyville, WI. The grotto is a collection of large Biblical statues and shrines made of coloured stone and shells.

It began in 1920 in memorium of some locals who died in the 14-18 show. They just never stopped. The lady in the mighty gift shop was very very much on God’s team. We felt her righteousness and purchased a large 3D thing of Jesus leading children over bridges.

It is also Mother’s Day! This means the radio feeds you a high-octane saccharine-pumped vomit-inducing diet of aural-based-musical-product. I’m sure we hear “No Charge” by JJ Barrie six times before 8am. We decide to talk to each other and give the radio a break..

Now we follow the gentle bumps of the hills dotted with beyond-perfect fences, behind which beyond-perfect farms are framed with lawns that would make the Wimbledon groundskeeper peeved. Oh to sell ride-on lawnmowers in Wisconsin! Around Hazel Green And Fairplay there are fields full of model alien spacecraft – it seems normal.
In Galena IL, at the “Grape Escape” bar we make a mental note not to get fabulously drunk. It’s a driving day tomorrow. That proves to be a mental note that was incorrectly filed away. The barman is being ogled by my wife. He’s come here as Katrina forced his family out of New Orleans – he’s a very handsome black guy, and the number of black guys we’ve seen in the North is noticeably small. He points that out to us. We agree and bore him for hours whilst drinking what seems to be endless bottles of champagne, this is going to be a drink-stop. Not Diet Coke and nachos tonight.

As the night progresses the local Sunday pick-up band begin their work, bearded mature dudes who make Ashly weep into her Dom Perignon with a version of “You Are My Sunshine” which is sung by a clone of her father in wistful hushed rural tones. At the very end I perform “You Belong To Me” – it’s pretty good actually and we get invited to the follow-on jam session at our new chum Laurie’s house. It’s ‘just up the road a-ways…’  I look at the map, it’s 15 miles and I’m off my tiny tits on champagne.

You are my sunshine